sounds of snoring came from dark corners, and the members of the
Gun Club, erstwhile so noisy in their seances, were reduced to
silence by this disastrous peace and gave themselves up wholly
to dreams of a Platonic kind of artillery.

"This is horrible!" said Tom Hunter one evening, while rapidly
carbonizing his wooden legs in the fireplace of the
smoking-room; "nothing to do! nothing to look forward to! what
a loathsome existence! When again shall the guns arouse us in
the morning with their delightful reports?"

"Those days are gone by," said jolly Bilsby, trying to extend
his missing arms. "It was delightful once upon a time!
One invented a gun, and hardly was it cast, when one hastened
to try it in the face of the enemy! Then one returned to camp
with a word of encouragement from Sherman or a friendly shake
of the hand from McClellan. But now the generals are gone
back to their counters; and in place of projectiles, they
despatch bales of cotton. By Jove, the future of gunnery in
America is lost!"

"Ay! and no war in prospect!" continued the famous James T.
Maston, scratching with his steel hook his gutta-percha cranium.
"Not a cloud on the horizon! and that too at such a critical
period in the progress of the science of artillery! Yes, gentlemen!
I who address you have myself this very morning perfected a
model (plan, section, elevation, etc.) of a mortar destined to
change all the conditions of warfare!"

"No! is it possible?" replied Tom Hunter, his thoughts reverting